


If Not Now: Never

by Onefalsestep



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Very slightly AU, sofa sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onefalsestep/pseuds/Onefalsestep
Summary: After the events at Sherrinford, John brings Sherlock home to 221B Baker Street, worried about the effects of the ordeal on his best friend. But a question lingers in his mind: why, when faced with the choice to shoot John, his brother, or himself, would Sherlock refuse to so much as point a weapon in his direction?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Only slightly AU in that 221B hasn't been blow up: partly because I found that sequence and its aftermath completely unrealistic and erased it from my brain, but mostly because I wanted them to have sex on the sofa.

After all of the questions, after the sweeping of the scene, Greg finally put them in the back of a police car. Not cuffed, this time: he kept a firm hand on John’s back as he guided them both in, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “You all right?”

Sherlock, already in the backseat, looked over. John nodded, minutely. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Lestrade’s gaze followed them as they pulled away. John pulled the blanket tight around himself, still shivering from the well water. Sherlock scanned him again, but said nothing. How many times had they sat like this, with these long lulls between them, with so many words unsaid? How many shocks, he wondered, could Sherlock endure? Could he himself endure, before this life left them broken, irreparably?

He should have gone home. Seen Rosie. But there was a hollowness to Sherlock’s expression, an unsettling fragility to that porcelain face, and John wanted to get him straight home to 221B Baker Street, to the refuge of their warm and cozy den.

Theirs. He never had stopped thinking of it as theirs, had he? Maybe because he was still welcome there anytime, day or night: he could open the door to the flat, sit down in his favorite chair, and know Sherlock wouldn’t bat an eye when he sauntered out of his bedroom (not always properly clothed) to find John there. Maybe because he always knew, deep down, that it might become his home again. If he needed to return. If Sherlock wanted—needed—him to return.

He glanced at the detective, who was looking straight ahead, still not speaking. A question rose in John’s throat, but died on his lips as he examined the lines of the trauma that had etched themselves into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock was in pain, and he couldn’t press him now. _Wouldn’t_ press him now, even though one particular scene from their time at Sherrinford kept playing over and over in his mind. Sherlock, with a gun. Facing two men: his brother, and a soldier. A man he loved, but a man who had told him, only moments before, that a soldier was what he would be, this day of all days. Soldiers died to preserve, to protect. That’s what they did. They took bullets. Faced death. Sacrificed, for the things that mattered: the lives that mattered.

Yet Sherlock had refused to aim the gun at John. Hadn’t even considered it. Had pointed the gun at his own throat—and _for god’s sake_ —John shuddered at the image—why had they let him do that? Why did he and Mycroft stand there, struck dumb?

He looked down at his hands, at the patterns of light flickering over them as they passed into London through the damp and windy night. He never would have forgiven himself if Sherlock had gone through with it. If Eurus hadn’t stopped it. It would have destroyed him, utterly. With Mary, he had felt grief: but Mary was strong. Mary made her own choices. Sherlock was…vulnerable. He rarely thought of him that way, but seeing him now, he knew Sherlock was not the genius in his ivory tower, the giant carved from marble, that John had idolized when first they met. They were all human, after all. Even Sherlock.

They climbed the stairs to the flat in silence, and Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa as soon as they got in the door. John took off the blanket and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, because that’s what people did, didn’t they? People like him. When they’d had a scare. When they needed a bit of comfort. But as he went through the motions, he knew his main impulse was the need to take some action—any action—to banish the haunted look from Sherlock’s eyes.

He came back into the living room, setting his mug by his chair before taking the other over to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his body limp. John put down the steaming mug on the low table, and knelt beside the other man. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t stir. John reached out, taking Sherlock’s wrist and turning it gently, pressing two fingers to the soft skin there. A reflexive motion. Sherlock might deduce by details, but John Watson judged by bodies, by their feel and their tics and their rhythms. He’d taken Sherlock’s often: not just after mortal wounds, but when he thought Sherlock might be high, when he knew the only tell would be in that erratic beat, that unsteady stutter of his heart.

Sherlock wasn’t high. His pulse was normal—well, normal for him, anyway. Always slightly elevated beyond what John estimated it should be. He’d always taken it for granted, a sign of the frenetic energy coming off Sherlock in waves, of the fact that he most often performed this act after times of high adrenaline and exertion. But now: he wondered. Hadn’t Sherlock told him, with great glee, of his final deduction of Irene Adler? Of the truths he’d found in the betrayal of her heartbeat, in her yearning, wide-open eyes?

He couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes. But that pulse was faster than it should be, he was sure of it. And apparently had been every time John had taken it. Even now. Even in this quiet, this calm. Something about John’s proximity quickened the beat of Sherlock’s heart.

He leaned back on his heels, and then bent slightly forward, fingers still curled around Sherlock’s wrist. He knew he should wait. Neither of them was in a state to talk about this, whatever this was. He didn’t even know what sort of Pandora’s box his questions might open. But he couldn’t help it. He had to know.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock’s eyes stayed closed. John leaned closer, his voice low. “I have to ask you something.”

“Mm.”

“In…Sherrinford. In the room with the gun. You thought about shooting Mycroft, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together into a wry smile. “I’ve often thought about shooting Mycroft.”

“Be serious. You thought about it, didn’t you? Did the calculations, before you…” John cleared his throat. “Before you pointed it at yourself?”

The smile left Sherlock’s lips. “I did. But I wouldn’t have.”

“But you considered it.”

“I didn’t go through with it.”

“You considered it, and then you considered—you committed—to shooting yourself.”

Sherlock inhaled. “Yes.”

“But not me.”

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked at John. “No.”

“Not for a moment.”

“No.”

“Sherlock…why?”

Those ice-blue eyes: terribly unnerving. They never shifted from John’s face. “You really have to ask.”

“Yes.”

“Because you haven’t worked it out.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sighed, disappointed, as ever, in John’s lack of mental acuity. “I would never aim a gun at you, John.”

“You did when you took me ‘hostage.’ You did when we were fleeing the police.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “That was different. That was acting.”

“And you’re good at acting.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re good at it, even with me.”

Sherlock’s gaze stayed even. “What do you mean?”

John took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock…you would shoot your brother. Yourself. Almost anyone, it seems, before you’d harm me, even though you know I’ve gone to war. You know that I’ve been through far worse.”

“And I would never put you through it again. I won’t put your life in danger, John Watson. I suppose it always is in danger, as long as you’re with me, but I will always do all I can to protect you, even so.” Sherlock’s voice softened. “You know that, don’t you?”

God. He did know that. How many times had Sherlock pulled him out of the fire? Literally, once. His fingers spread across the expanse of Sherlock’s wrist. “I still don’t understand. I don’t understand why.”

“Because I love you.”

The words didn’t shock John: Sherlock had said as much in his wedding toast, after all. _The two people who love you most in all this world_. And he knew that Sherlock considered him family, yet something didn’t add up. “You love Mycroft too, even though you’d never say it. He’s your brother, Sherlock. If I’m family, then so is he. What’s the difference, then? What’s the difference between what you feel for him, and what you feel…for me?”

The last words hung in the air as Sherlock closed his eyes. “Don’t do this, John.”

“Sherlock.”

“Don’t make me say this.” The plea tugged at John’s heart. _Leave him alone_ , some part of him whispered. _Go home_. _Go to bed_. He’d done that a thousand times. Walked away, when questions rose in his mind. When Sherlock distanced himself from John, made it clear he didn’t want to talk, to delve. They’d just lived through hell, though. If not now, when? If not now: never.

“I think I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I’m taking your pulse, Sherlock.” John’s fingers danced over his wrist. “It’s fast, did you know that? Too fast, for someone lying there like that. Too fast, every time I touch you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John went on. “And you would never hurt me. Not intentionally. God knows you have, but I know, somewhere in that thick skull of yours, I know you always thought you were protecting me.” His fingers crept up towards Sherlock’s hand, stroking his palm. “I know you did. You always think of me first, Sherlock. Always. And I thought…I don’t know what I thought. That is was because you were my best friend. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Because it doesn’t make sense…if we’re only friends…”

Sherlock started to pull his hand away, but John threaded their fingers together, holding on. “It doesn’t make sense unless there’s more to this. It doesn’t make sense unless you’re…”

“John,” Sherlock warned.

“You’re…”

“ _John_.”

“…In love with me.”

Outside, distant sirens blared. Drunken laughter echoed through the streets. The sounds of late-night London. And here they were, in their little flat, together after all this time. And Sherlock was looking at him with an expression John had never seen before: hungry, yet hunted. Like he’d been found out. His face was frozen, and John realized for the first time how easy it would be to end the distance between them. To melt all that doubt and fear away. He brought his hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, brushing the soft skin with the back of his knuckles. Sherlock responded to the touch, ever so slightly, cocking his head towards John’s hand, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, John.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t. It cannot, because you don’t feel the same. And---” He gripped John’s hand, pulling it down. “And I cannot lose you, John. Forget this, please. Let it be unspoken. Because if you don’t—”

“Sherlock—”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his fingers on John’s wrist. “If you _don’t_ —”

“Sherlock.” John used his soldier’s tenor there, issuing a command. Sherlock looked up. “You can be incredibly thick sometimes, you know that?” He shifted closer to Sherlock, feeling the heat of Sherlock’s body under his tight white dress shirt. John had always thought Sherlock looked especially magnetic in his sleekly tailored clothes, stalking through crime scenes, commanding every room he entered. He supposed that should have been a sign right there. “You see, but you do not observe. _Feel_ , Sherlock.” He looked down at Sherlock’s long fingers, wrapped around his wrist. “Don’t think, right now. Feel.”

They kept their eyes on each other. Sherlock looked skittish, like all he wanted was to flee. Yet he drew a breath, letting his hand relax, finding John’s pulse point. _Yes_ , John thought. _Just so_. And Sherlock’s eyes widened, the pupils already dilated. “You—”

“Read. The. Signs.”

“You’re—”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock stared at him. “I never knew.” He shook his head. “How did I miss it?”

John laughed, a low, tired sound. “You’re not the only one.” He leaned up, freeing his hand from Sherlock’s fingers, pressing it to Sherlock’s chest. “If anyone should have known, it’s me. Because it’s been like this since the beginning, you know. From the first day I met you.”

“The first?”

“The first. You being beautiful and brilliant and bloody insane, and me just standing there, open-mouthed. If that’s not love at first sight, I don’t know what is.”

Sherlock lunged, grabbing John’s shirt to haul him onto the sofa, and kissed him. Hard. Like he’d thought about it every day of the last few years, and John supposed—oh, Jesus, it thrilled him to imagine—that Sherlock had. Every time he flicked his eyes over John’s form, every time their bodies were close, all those little intimate moments in the flat, in cars, in peril and in peace. How John wished Sherlock had done this before, just grabbed John and snogged him senseless, because this was amazing. Sherlock’s lips were skilled but greedy, and he drank John in like a man dying of thirst. John shifted, deepening the kiss, running his hands anywhere he could get them, over Sherlock’s hips, his sides, his bloody exquisite cheekbones. They pushed against one another, and John sensed, for a moment, why Sherlock had hesitated to reveal how he felt. Because Sherlock was the smartest man he knew, and Sherlock had known that once they fell into one another, they would never get out. They would drown in this, this sensation, this need. And he didn’t care. He didn’t care one bit. He would let Sherlock undo him. After all, wasn’t that what he had been doing for years? Letting Sherlock control him, command him, call and cajole him. Because he loved him. There was no other reason for the things he’d done. He loved this man, and he could have him. And he would, right now.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Clothes were undone and flung, in no order but the one that seemed easiest, while John’s hands searched, finding new ways to feel more, more of Sherlock’s body, more of that glorious warm skin. He pushed his thumbs into the dips of those sharp hipbones, ran his hands along the curve of Sherlock’s arse. They ground against one another, horizontal and naked and electric, every new position sending shocks down John’s spine. Sherlock squirmed, arching under John’s hips. “John—I want—I need—”

John needed, too. Needed Sherlock, right now. He tore his mouth from Sherlock’s, kissing his way down that pale, exposed chest. Sherlock pushed up onto his elbows, watching in fascination as John slid back, bringing his mouth to Sherlock’s cock. He’d given a blow job or two in his life, but that had been kid’s stuff, back in school, early on in the army. He wanted this to last. He wanted to savor this.

He let out a warm breath, and Sherlock shivered as John licked the tip of his cock. John brought his hand to the base: yeah, this was something he knew how to do. Plenty of practice, getting himself off. Thinking of women, of men—sometimes men with dark, ruffled hair, tall and slim and—oh _fuck_ —so very flexible. Sherlock hooked his long, muscular legs over John’s shoulders, and John dipped, taking in more of Sherlock’s cock each time Sherlock arched, swirling his tongue over the tender flesh, tasting the sweet, salty flavor of Sherlock— _Sherlock_ —using his hand and his mouth to bring Sherlock closer to the edge. Sherlock cried out, and John nearly lost his grip, nearly coming from the sound alone. This was like being seventeen all over again, and only Sherlock—of course, only Sherlock—could make him lose control like this, could bring him to this kind of messy climax with only his voice, that low growl in his throat, that refrain, over and over, of “John. John. _John_.”

He steadied his hand, and sucked hard, finishing Sherlock off as Sherlock thrust into his mouth. He swallowed his cum, swallowed every bit of him, because they should have been doing this for _years_ , every day of their wild, entwined lives. Sherlock looked like nothing as much as a smug jungle cat stretched out under John’s hips, sated and sleepy, his blue eyes clouded with pleasure.

John’s own erection was driving him mad, and he rocked back on his heels, meeting Sherlock’s eyes as he gestured to his crotch. “Sherlock—could you—er—”

Sherlock shook himself out of his post-orgasmic haze and leaned forward, taking John’s cock into his hand with little effort. Those long arms, those hands: oh, the things they could do. The things they _would_ do. John had plenty more in mind for tonight. But he needed release, now, and he was willing to beg for it. “Please—could you just—”

Familiar mischief flickered in Sherlock’s eyes. “Could I what, John?”

“Could you—please, could you just—”

Sherlock’s fingers dragged languidly over the length of John’s cock, not gripping, not squeezing. Stroking, slow and light and god, he might black out, he really might. “Sherlock,” he gasped, “for god’s sake, could you just—”

“What, John?”

“Just—” He closed his eyes. “Just make me come. I want you to make me come.”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s cock, obliging with a practiced flick of the wrist. _You’d think he done experiments on this_ , John thought. Experiments on exactly what pressure to apply, on how to draw out each stroke so that John thought _now_ , maybe now, but no, he was in Sherlock’s control, and Sherlock didn’t want to let go yet. Sherlock wanted to watch. He wanted to watch John fall apart under his hands. Had he thought about this, imagined these details, tucked away in some sordid room of his mind palace? Had he touched himself, thinking of John, of what they could be? Had he practiced this on himself, calculating the exact degrees of John's sensitivity, envisioning different scenarios and molding his techniques to each one? Because it might only be a hand job, but this was rapidly rising to top John’s list of the best sex of his life.

Sherlock kept his gaze trained on John, his mouth half-open, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he took in the scene before him. John, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, bending over Sherlock as Sherlock worked his cock, sliding and slipping around John’s dripping prick as John wriggled, almost unable to bear the sensation. “Sherlock,” he breathed, and Sherlock let him come, let him spill himself all over Sherlock’s taut stomach, let him fall, at last, into Sherlock’s arms.

They lay together a long time, sticky and satisfied, kissing lazily and exploring the maps of each others’ bodies: not desperately now, now that this fantasy was here. Soon John grew hot, and he pushed himself up, looking down at the mess they’d made. “Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t approve of this at all.”

“I rather think you underestimate Mrs. Hudson’s enthusiasm for activities of this kind.”

“On second thought, let’s leave Mrs. Hudson out of this, shall we?” John stretched, leaning from side to side. “Listen, I don’t want to end this, but we’ve got to clean up. So I was thinking…”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, as if the image from John’s mind had just popped into his. “Shower?”

John laughed. “Shower.” He pressed a long, lasting kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “I am…sorry, you know. That it took me so long to work this out. I guess I am slow as you always say I am after all.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He felt the rumble of Sherlock’s voice beneath his own chest. “You’re here now, John. And you’ll always be here, won’t you?”

It was a question, a genuine one. Even after all of this, Sherlock truly didn’t know the depth of what John felt for him. John resolved, right then and there, to spend the rest of his life showing Sherlock exactly how incredible he was, how loved. He leaned low across Sherlock’s body, engulfing him in a steady embrace, putting his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “Always, my love. I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
